No patriots flock to propagate my theme,
Nor lick my feet the ill-got wreath to share.
The fulsome strain of incense-breathing puff,
The snuffman bawling to the throng misled;
Cobbett’s foul Register, nor all the stuff
Of weekly scribes, can raise my drooping head.
Oft did the thoughtless to their judgments yield,
Their railings oft disloyal rage provoke;
How jocund each his secret soul reveal’d,
How laugh’d the crowd at ev’ry hackney’d joke